Soul of the Unborn Read online

  “I hope we’ll hear something original,” Jessie said. “You’ve done these tours before, right?”

  Aggressive. Insecure from dating a domineering, gorgeous boyfriend?

  “I assure you, I am fully qualified.” I injected plenty of defensiveness into my amiable tone. “Tales are my specialty.”

  My approach failed. Jessie aimed her nose higher. The bleached curls that looked so messy on her photos were gone, replaced by stylish, uneven strands. The color of her eyes was incredible, pale gray, like weeks-old snow on a balmy spring day. I locked my gaze with hers. Nothing. Not even curiosity. My inability to register the usual array of human emotions demonstrated Jessie’s tremendous willpower, making me wonder what she was hiding.

  I felt a nudge of weakness in my diaphragm.

  “Hold on, hold on…before we go….” Luke plopped the souvenir teakettle warmer on his head and thrust his camera into my hands. “Would you take a picture?”

  “Sure.” I motioned for the group to cluster around him and fumbled with the buttons.

  Debra Alley adjusted the doll’s skirt over Luke’s ears. “It looks great on you. You’d better keep it.”

  My Debra. She had no idea that a few lifetimes ago she and I shared the same ancestor. Her cropped, fluffy black hair left her neck exposed. As she raised a pale hand in a greeting, she reminded me of a silent movie star: deep, mesmerizing eyes, framed by black eyelashes, richly colored lips ready to unlock into a smile, and grace unmatched, with the utmost femininity revealed in each motion of her slim body. A modern girl, she wore a designer denim dress, but I pictured her dancing the Charleston.

  Oh, Debra, if you only knew how much I hoped you were unique like me and Vishenky’s portals would stir your dormant paranormal powers. A year ago, my mother’s confession about the circumstances of my birth almost destroyed my world. The word “stillborn” had left her mouth, and knowing the implications, I had envisioned my name being deleted from the list of human species. If my every breath, every emotion, every desire was generated by a supernatural entity, where was my soul? Did I even have one? I had to have proof, once and for all, that it was my bloodline that gave me my supernatural abilities, not the energy that had chosen to inhabit an infant’s corpse. I wasn’t a puppet in someone’s horror show with my strings pulled by a wicked director.

  Now my emotions ran amok, and my heart scurried like a startled chipmunk. Before I lost control completely, I scanned the fifth member of the group, the older man I didn’t know.

  I had no trouble reading him. He hated standing here. He fervently detested Peter and my presence. His irritation boiled like magma, threatening to burst the surface of his polite demeanor. But the surface was sealed by unyielding self-control.

  My preservation instincts set up no barbed wire in response. His combination of green eyes with wavy sandy-blond hair probably never failed to get a woman to like him at first sight, but I didn’t think I could fall just for a nice face. And still, suddenly, I wanted to forget Debra, forget Vishenky, and drag this man from the gloominess of the hotel into the sunlight and to the lively boulevards and historic squares of my city. Let him absorb the view of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior from the Andreevsky Bridge. Make him listen to the beat of the new expressway that replaced the railroad across the Moscow River. Stun him with the sight of a sunset from my ninth-floor apartment over the Novodevichy Convent, at the hour when the glow of the last sunrays transformed the reflecting pond into a fairy tale of romantic twilight and ethereal shadows and—

  I must have gone insane.

  Vestiges of Vishenky’s energy faded fast from my body. Peter spoke, but I didn’t catch the meaning of his words. Above me, the painted images of joyful workers from the Soviet fifties swayed, and the rotund ceiling pushed its weight on my shoulders, gripping my head in a plaster clasp. Instead of throwing myself into the expected round of introductions, I summoned all my willpower to remain steady on my feet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Something was off within the group.

  Debra began to chatter after I had shoved the camera back to Luke and marched out of the hotel without a word of explanation. She babbled about the weather, traffic, pigeons, crowds, and a playful cocker spaniel biting its leash—anything around us. She wasn’t just filling the pause left by my silence; she was trying to ingratiate herself with her unhappy companions.

  Not how I had imagined our first encounter, but she was here and on her way to Vishenky, and I’d allow no one to interfere with my plan. I intended to rule this motley bunch by the time we stepped off the train.

  I regained some of my bearings before the train left the station, thanks to the coffee Jessie bought for me while I purchased our tickets. I didn’t dwell on the fact that her ice-gray eyes read me better than I read her.

  The guys fussed over fitting their luggage, which I found excessive for one night, on the overhead shelves. The group settled in the compartments across the aisle, and I pushed the upper part of the smudged window open and rolled up the sleeves of my blouse, giving myself a few extra moments to decide how to proceed.

  So tense and focused that my hands trembled, I picked a seat to face the man with whom I had yet to be acquainted. His stare dropped to my interlaced fingers then returned to my eyes.

  No jacket for a cold evening on the river; no overnight bag, while Luke carried something the size of a pony in his backpack. Unlike the students, the man wasn’t planning to stay in Vishenky.

  On our ten-minute walk to the train station, I had managed to gauge his reaction to the labyrinth of the underground crossing, the apartment buildings and kiosks, and a cluster of gypsies huddling on an empty platform. I sensed his recognition, while Russia seemed an undiscovered concept to his younger companions.

  There was something else in his reaction. A layer deeper, a shadow darker. Wisps of sadness drifted through his emotions like puffs of fog floating across a road between two fields.

  “Has Moscow changed since your last visit?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Twelve years is a long time.”

  My astounding insight left him unimpressed, but Debra’s eyebrows moved. Across the aisle, Luke and Jessie leaned in my direction, smug “game-on” alertness mushrooming on their faces.

  “But I had only stayed in Moscow for three days,” the man added.

  “Where else?” I asked.

  “St. Petersburg.”

  I liked how he spoke, politely, softly, giving away no bad sentiments which I had earlier perceived in him at the hotel. “May I have your name?”

  He regarded Peter, my email contact, with a quizzical glance. That’s right, I thought, Peter never mentioned you. Do you wonder now how I knew you’d been to Moscow before?

  “Chris Waller,” the man said. “I teach political science.”

  “Russia is a good place for our studies,” Peter chimed in.

  I knew nothing about their plans to make this trip politically enlightening. I ignored Peter and focused on Chris. “What made you interested in Vishenky’s folklore?”

  “It’s about Russian culture,” Jessie informed me coldly, “our elective course. We’re lucky Mr. Waller found you.”

  Seriously? He found me?

  I kept my eyes on Chris. No pride for his diligent pupils; his glare fell on Jessie like a marble headstone.

  What is it that you’re not saying, Mr. Waller? What did they tell you to bring you here? Why are you letting your students lie?

  “How often do you do these tours?” Chris asked me.

  “Every July. My operation is tied to a natural phenomenon. I thought you knew.” One lie, one truth, and then I fished to see his reaction.

  “Maybe you could tell us more about yourself, Valya,” Peter interrupted before Chris could elaborate on what he knew and what he didn’t.

  “Yeah, I have three questions,” Luke announced.

  “I’m twenty-three and single,” I said. “What’s your third question?”

  I hit the mark. Luke and Debra chuckled. Chris’s lips moved in a faint smile.

  “Your favorite color?” Luke asked.

  “Chartreuse.” Dictionaries are full of magnificent words.

  Luke scratched the back of his head in mock puzzlement. With his tousled hair cut short and eyes shining in exuberance, he had all the qualities of a puppy that had just rolled in grass and then jumped up suddenly, eager to greet its master. Puppies with unbounded energy and no discipline could be a challenge, but I knew the perfect incentive for training. I looked at Luke’s chubby cheeks and untucked shirt. I was a good cook.

  I pointed out an old brick water tower as we passed by. Then I recited my website pitch without adding anything new. I was offering a walking tour, plus lunch in a picturesque village. Some fascinating local stories. Plenty of room at my summer home. With my amazing group discount, for just twenty dollars more per person, they were invited to stay overnight and get a chance to witness an unusual phenomenon.

  “You can decide for yourselves what you saw,” I said.

  “Sounds like fun,” Debra said. “Your English is quite good. I like your accent.”

  “Do any of you speak Russian?” I asked.

  “No,” Debra said.

  She didn’t even blush. But Chris did, showing me he was aware Debra spoke my language fluently. By the way he clenched his jaw, I guessed he wasn’t happy she had lied.

  In fact, most of what the group had told me was a lie. They weren’t ordinary tourists, folklore collectors who found me on the Internet. They didn’t realize I had singled them out.

  Panic scattered my thoughts. Kenny Ogden and his team.

  I’d made a grave mistake twelve months ago. I had hosted another group, and that tour ended in disaster. I ha
d dealt with the outcome and thought there would be no further consequences. But what if Debra and her friends knew my earlier guests?

  Sweat moistened my palms. I unbuttoned the top of my blouse.

  Chris watched me. More out of nervousness than with intent, I held his stare until he looked away.

  I thought it was impossible, but what if Vishenky’s secrets got out? If Kenny talked, and this crew believed him, they would be watching my every move. How soon would someone figure out that Debra was my target?

  The remains of my confidence dissipated like the puff of a baby sparrow’s breath.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Chris caught an interesting view of the village of Vishenky from the train.

  First, miles of industrial structures and bleak apartment buildings that crowded Moscow’s outskirts were replaced with green fields interspersed with brightly painted country houses and modern boxy mansions. Then a mixed forest emerged on both sides of the railway as birches and junipers flashed by, blocking Chris’s view for a few minutes.

  When the wall of greenery parted, a stately white church with blue domes seemed to rotate on top of a hill as the train rode in a smooth arc around it. At the lowest level of the terrain, the snaking water surface glittered amid the verdant willows. A strip of rooftops followed the riverbed.

  His younger cousin, Debra, leaned forward for a better view. “Quite scenic.”

  Valya’s eyes lit up as she nodded at the window. “Vishenky.”

  Hallelujah. The spark of delight in the young woman’s eyes gave Chris hope the guide might end her marathon of anxiety. During the thirty-minute train ride, Valya sat straight, her spine rigid. Her tightly interlocked fingers never loosened. She rarely made eye contact, but when she did, she stared with a feverish intensity that could ignite a wet log.

  With a guide playing a psychic, Chris had expected to find a sly professional capable of entertaining while remaining in charge. He thought he’d detest her, a fake medium fooling gullible tourists. Instead, he wanted to help her.

  Valya looked stunned when his cousin had lied about her Russian. After Debra blurted out, “No,” Valya’s shoulders slumped, and she sank into silence. At that moment, Chris began to grasp the cause of her predicament. The group was trying to confuse her, but she must have obtained some information from Jessie’s blog or Peter’s e-mails. That was why the idea of testing her “psychic powers” by misleading her had backfired. Rattled by Debra’s dishonesty, the inexperienced, timid guide couldn’t do her job.

  What was the deal with Valya’s tours, anyway? He should have asked about her at the hotel instead of trusting the accuracy of the information that Peter had given to Debra.

  The train came to a stop. The doors slid open, and Chris squinted at the frenzied color palette of the countryside.

  A short ride away, the Russian capital showed off the illustrious sight of the Kremlin rising above the Moscow River. He wasn’t going to sacrifice an afternoon of browsing the streets and soaking up the mood and vibes of the dazzling city. He thought of a simple way to help the struggling guide. Then he’d grab Debra and flee the village.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Surrounded by rye fields, the train station consisted of a platform and a ticket booth. Above the birch grove that sprawled between my raring-to-go group and Vishenky, the golden cross of the church sparkled in the blinding late-morning sun. The calm air smelled of cut grass and cornflowers. Only Luke’s whistling disturbed the countryside’s tranquility. Each trill sliced my sleep-deprived brain into pieces.

  Jessie pulled off her khaki rain jacket and tied the sleeves around her waist. “I hope it doesn’t get any hotter.”

  “No humidity compared to Virginia.” For the first time, Chris sounded enthusiastic. “Very nice.”

  “Scattered clouds in the afternoon. A slight chance of thunderstorms.” I had memorized the weather-channel talk in English. “Clear and cooler after sundown.”

  “Great forecast.” Chris grinned, looking much too cute and no doubt knowing it. “Valya, you don’t have to be so formal.”

  “I’m not,” I said, riled not by his tone—it had been gracious all along—but by his patronizing encouragement. “This way.” I strode along the platform, hurried by an irrational desire to put some distance between the station and us, as though my guests would jump on a train headed back to Moscow.

  Maybe I should just explain to them that what happened to last summer’s visitors wasn’t entirely my fault. But was there really a link between the two groups? Or could the old paranoia have crawled from the catacombs of my subconscious, tainting my perception?

  We crossed the railroad tracks. Instead of taking the dusty road that led straight to Vishenky, I turned onto a scenic trail that ran down a hill, weaved between isles of birches, and cut through a clover meadow. My guests’ peculiar behavior on the train was forcing me to alter my plans. My first test, albeit spontaneous, waited for Debra in the grove ahead: a water well with a faint flow of energy from a portal. A portal into another world. The energy I craved. The force that infused my bloodstream with electric current, made me feel effervescent, alive.

  My plan was simple. Exposed to the energy, Debra would exhibit supernatural skills. Her transformation would prove that our abilities stemmed solely from our genes. I wasn’t a soulless monster destined to perish in another dimension.

  I walked faster, ignoring Luke’s puffing.

  Debra’s great-great-grandmother, Alexandra Gretishnikoff, had emigrated from Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution, and the last name, especially with this spelling, was rare. Thrilled I had found her, I was dying to call Debra and introduce myself, but without any urgency on her part, it could take years before she decided to meet the Russian side of the Gretishnikoff clan.

  Fortunately for me, because of her friendship with Peter Moss, her name popped up on his girlfriend’s blog.

  Jessie Hunt, an odd but gifted blonde obsessed with paranormal phenomena, adored small and sleepy towns with chilling ghost tales. Her photo of a marble angel that appeared to drift in fog past ivy-covered decaying crypts had haunted my dreams for nights.

  I left a comment pretending to be a German student who had just visited this incredible spooky village near Moscow. Jessie wanted to know more. My identity still concealed, I led her to the website explaining my tours. Then Peter Moss took charge, requesting a brochure to his home address.

  Besides my flier, I also enclosed a sliver of a moisture-damaged mirror with instructions to drop it in a glass of water. The shard would turn into a transparent newt. Deprived of Vishenky’s energy, the paranormal amphibian would then vanish in seconds.

  Can I have another one? he quickly e-mailed.

  If you take my tour, you can collect some in person, I wrote back.

  He and his friends would love to do that, but travel to Moscow wasn’t cheap. Maybe in a year?

  I drowned my disappointment and impatience in Russian poetry and English grammar.

  Then my cell phone rang one day. A group of aspiring journalists was traveling through Europe to make a documentary about paranormal sightings. They wanted to spruce up the story with Russian folklore.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “You have a cool website,” a young male voice said.

  That troubled me. True, I had listed my phone number and email address as the means of contact, but I used the words “Moscow” and “Russian” only in the flyer, hoping the Internet search engines would overlook my site. Had Peter forwarded my info to someone else?

  “Sorry, I screen my guests, and I’m currently full,” I told the caller.

  “Do you want me to post all over the Web that you’re a fake?”

  I wanted no publicity at all, good or bad, so I agreed. “I’ll meet you at the airport,” I said. They didn’t know with whom they were dealing.

  Two boys and a girl, all college freshmen, showed up.

  Their documentary wasn’t about poltergeists, Yeti, or UFOs. They investigated worldwide analogies in superstitions, ghost stories, and tactics of “crooks like me.”

  “I’ll make you forget about Vishenky,” I told them sweetly. “But first, I’ll make you wonder how many of the stories you’ve recorded are true.”